Blue Rose In Chelsea (27 page)

     I almost feel something like human emotion emitting from Wanda, but she shakes off any vestige of vulnerability, and resumes her business persona.  “Your descriptions are striking, yet crisp and to the point.  I like that, too.  I like when people get to the point, plus it makes for a fast read.”  Wanda is nothing, if not fast; she has gone through two coffees and six cigarettes.

     “I get that from my father.  He always says he skips over the long descriptions in books, but I was determined that he wouldn’t skip over mine, so to keep his attention I learned how to distill my impressions to one vivid image.”

     “Interesting.”  Wanda stubs out her cigarette, looking thoroughly uninterested.

     “It’s a wonderful offer,” I say, and my tone alerts Wanda.

     “But?” she inquires.  “Don’t tell me you’d pass it up for him.  Well, that’s a first.  Most people would sell their firstborn for representation with me.  Do you understand what I’m offering you?  I could have you launched with a year’s time.  You would be set.  There’s no one else in this city who could do for you what I am able to do.”  Despite this passionate spiel, Wanda keeps her cool.  Does she ever lose her perennial cool?  Perhaps during the fabulous sex, or the seafood flatulence?

     Her blue eyes are like lasers, seeking to burn off any reservations or doubts on my part.

     “I don’t know if I can do that to Evan.”  I see myself ascending a glistering gold stairway, each step composed of Evan.  Brandon’s words haunt me. 
I’m worried now.

     
“Why not?  He’d do it to you. 
He already has
, hasn’t he?”

     I may as well have been hit by a two-by-four.  At that moment Sinclair trots past.  The black poodle has heeled him, rather than the other way around.  The dog drools yellow feathers from its mouth.

     “What a blow to him, and so soon after his brother,” I murmur, as if thinking aloud.

     “Brother?  Evan has no brother.”  Wanda slaps a fresh pack of cigarettes against her wrist, commandeering the tobacco to get in step.

     “I meant sister,” I fib.  This one whopper miraculously slips past the Truth Detector.

     “Ah, yes, his sister’s impending nuptials in Boston.  Trust me, Evan has socked away enough cash, courtesy of my hard work in landing him jobs, to help her with any expenses.”

     It’s as if Wanda has sunk underwater, her words sound garbled and cease to register.  For all the knowledge that Wanda Everhart Teely-Turpin may have garnered of Evan, he has not told her about his twin brother.  That secret, that deeply poignant part of him, was, alone, entrusted to me.

     I sit for a time in Coopers, long after Wanda departs in a cloud of Opium perfume, my velvet bag of stories deposited on her chair.  I’ve switched from tea to red wine, which suits me fine; soon I’m warmed into a nice numb haze.  I stare out the window, trying to determine if it’s snowing.  I swear that I see fine white flakes, and then I’m convinced that I don’t, and then I think I do.  I try to blot out the disturbing and recurring image of Evan
in flagrante
with Wanda and her double Ds, while simultaneously entertaining grandiose visions of myself as a novelist with a spread in Vogue—perhaps I’d wear velvet?  I finger Wanda’s beetling business card, but I know in my gut that I’ll never make that call.  There will be other offers, I try to console myself, but will there ever be another Evan?

~ 17 ~

Bright Lights, Big Scallops

     I wait for Sinclair to ditch the dog.  As the air grows dim, and the day fades, I remember that it’s Sinclair’s birthday, and that I’ve been invited for an intimate dinner at The Joseph’s Murray Hill digs.

     “I’m going to skip dinner if you don’t mind,” I slur to Sinclair when he eventually shows up.  The wine has left me contented to live out my days uneventfully and without consequence in my corner of Coopers.

     “Don’t let Wanda Stab-Your-Heart Steely Turpitude ruin your appetite.  Madeline would not have missed a meal over the machinations of the German High Command.  Besides, you cannot back out,” Sinclair protests, in a whisper of panic.  “Joseph takes his dinner parties very seriously.  He set the table two days ago.”

     This bombshell leaves me no choice but to catch a cab with Sinclair in the snowy twilight.

     The Joseph has set a table of palest yellow linen with colorful china plates of café scenes in primary colors.  The dinner napkins perfectly compliment the stunning arrangement of lavender orchids in the center of the table.  He’s prepared appetizers of crab cakes with avocado mousse and blue cheese polenta canapés, with caramelized onions and toasted pecans.

     They are like eager parents, awaiting my report of my first day at school.  I tell them about Wanda’s offer of a book deal, and a Vogue layout.

     “It’s a deal with the devil.”  The Joseph spoons little green gobs onto my crabcake.  “I would know, I made one myself years ago.”

     I tell them that she claims she terminated Evan as a client because of his lousy acting on the series.

     “Oh, I thought he was quite good,” TJ says in sympathy.  This is high praise, coming from the fastidious theatre critic, Joseph.  Sinclair agrees.  They dissect Evan’s performance, scene by scene, with a recall that impresses me.  Did they tape his shows and study them?

     “Though if the sex was as earth-shattering as she claims, I find it hard to believe she’d dump him for something so meager as lack of acting talent,” TJ determines, with a suggestive prod at his polenta.

     “You must accept her offer!” Sinclair presses, as he observes me blanch white.  “This is Vogue, Vivie!  I wonder if you’ll get to keep the clothes.  I see you in something regal, like red velvet.  You are, after all, a Countess, the sister I never had!”

     I glance at TJ, wondering if he’s hip to the Count thing.  He appears unfazed, crunching his pecans.

     “She hasn’t offered Haley anything concrete—just the promise of possible publication.  You don’t know, once you finish the novel, she could say that the tastes of the public have suddenly changed and it’s no longer saleable, or that it didn’t live up to its original promise.  Then she will have you where she wants you.  You’ll have thrown over the one you love, and for what?  A handful of dust!”

     “Hell hath no fury like a Wanda scorned!” Sinclair declares, the light dawning.

     “This city is full of vipers,” The Joseph summarizes.  “I would know.  I was one.”

     Sinclair pats TJ’s hand in a gesture that says,
all that is in
the past
.

     I share my astonishment at Wanda grouping me in the same sentence as authors S. E. Hinton, and Jay McInerney.  TJ serves a roasted beet salad with goat cheese and mixed greens.

     “Loved Bright Lights, loved it,” TJ rhapsodizes.  He and Sinclair trade favorite lines from the book.

     They weigh in on
The Outsiders
, which, Wanda has informed me, has had records sales since its inception, at times outselling the Bible.  TJ spoons pan-seared scallops, Sinclair’s favorite, onto our plates.

     “Ponyboy was hot.”  Sinclair fishes out a scallop swimming in butter.

     “Your brother looks like that character in the movie, what was his name?”

     “Dally,” I say with a sigh.  “Yes, everyone thinks Dylan looks like Matt Dillon.”

     “Who would play me in a movie?” The Joseph conjectures, as he polishes a smudge on his silver tea set.  Sinclair arranges the dessert table.

     “Louis Jordan,” I say, and TJ blushes to his distinguished graying temples.

     I’m touched that TJ remembers the way I like my tea, Earl Grey, with just three dunks of the bag, served with heavy cream, no sugar.  “Who could have room for dessert after that feast?”  I push myself back from the table.

      Sinclair shoots me a look as if someone is unmercifully pinching his ears.

     “But I could never pass up such a gourmet concoction as your crème brulee’,” I call to TJ in his black and white wonderland of a kitchen.

“Louis Jordan?” Sinclair whispers, arching an eyebrow.  “And we thought you were without guile.”

~ 18 ~

The Countess Wellington

      The cold February days stretch into cold March days.  Although it doesn’t materialize, the ghost of snow chills the air.   My attempts to reach Evan prove in vain.  His phone rings, but no message machine picks up.  I don’t know if he is in New York or Boston or Texas, or who knows where.  My treks to Chelsea prove fruitless.  His apartment is always dark, seemingly abandoned.  I begin to feel like Freddy Eynsford-Hill in
My Fair Lady
; I’m almost inclined to show up in a dove gray morning coat and top hat and break into song,
oh that wonderful feeling/just to know somehow you are near/that overpowering feeling that any second you may suddenly appear.

    
Dylan completes his demo tape to his satisfaction and shops it with a fervor and focus that is classic Dylan.  The band decides on the name It Should’ve Been Burr, a nod to Dylan’s idol, Alexander Hamilton--the dashing orphan from the West Indies, establisher of national banks and founding father of our great country.  The name refers to the duel Alexander Hamilton lost to Aaron Burr, which cost him his life.   A gig at The Cat Club captures the attention of a producer of Indie bands, and It Should’ve Been Burr is offered a tour overseas, playing small venues throughout the German countryside.   I don’t dare ask Dylan about Evan.  I’m sure he wouldn’t offer me information anyway, and I’m grateful that he hasn’t broached the subject.  Perhaps this is out of mercy, or his silence may be his way of conveying that he won’t side against me, or perhaps he’s just distracted with securing the plans for the Germany tour.  My ever-responsible brother, covering his bases, arranges a leave of absence from his accounting job, cashing in the years of accrued vacation days he’s never used, and sets about securing a van for the band to live out of while on the tour.  It is strictly a no-frills operation to give the band exposure, but it is an opportunity, and there is no one quite as adept at advancing an opportunity like Dylan.  If anyone can pull off the starving artist motif with sangfroid, it’s my brother.  Oddly, the one shred of information that Dylan imparts to me regards Sinclair.

     “Did you know that Sinclair’s mother is in Lennox Hill Hospital?  A stroke, apparently.

     “The Countess Wellington is in New York?” I say, startled.

     There is silence at the other end of the phone. 

     “Haley, Sinclair is not a count.  He’s a loveable crackpot, but he’s not royalty.”

     “Whatever,” I say, embarrassed.

     Sinclair has made himself scarce to me since his birthday dinner.  He practically lives at The Joseph’s now.  On clear days, little Felix and I wander Columbus Avenue; I push him in his blue striped stroller and window shop, or sit and watch him play on the swings in the park, while I listen to my Cowboy Junkies tape with my headphones, feeling friendless and adrift.  Somehow I’ve managed to alienate everyone who matters to me.  One day, walking home from the park, I spy The Joseph on my front stoop.  It must be serious business for The Joseph to be sitting on a cold dirty stoop without the little hand towel that he generally uses when forced to sit among the common-folk in subway cars.

     “Is it Sinclair’s mother?” I say, taking Felix’s warm little hand and hurrying on up to him.

     “You heard?”

     I ask after Sinclair.

     “He’s kept out of your way, because he’s afraid he’s ruined your life.”

     “Well, he has!  But I’ve forgiven him.  The whole thing would actually be sort of funny, if it was in a novel, and not actually happening in my real life.”

     “I fear Sinclair’s mother intends to disinherit him.”

     “The moat?” I say, mouth agape.

     “Pardon?”

     It occurs to me that perhaps Joseph still does not know that Sinclair is a count.

     “Nothing,” I say, feeling foolish.  Perhaps Dylan is right.

     The Joseph informs me that Sinclair’s mother has been ill for some time.  It is unclear whether she came to New York on business, for medical treatment, or to see her son, or a combination of all three, but she suffered a stroke during her stay.  Sinclair’s mother was not very forthcoming with her feelings or intentions during the visit with Sinclair, but neither did she denounce her past threats to disinherit him if he continued in his “degenerative lifestyle.”

     “Poor Sinclair, what did he say to her?”

     We walk down to Coopers for a bracing cup of tea.  Felix takes my hand and loops his other through Joseph’s.

     “He told her simply, ‘There is someone I would like you to meet, someone who is the most important person in the world to me.’   He wants me to go and meet her, alone.”

     “Maybe she will accept you, once she meets you.  You’re a man of means and high culture.”  Flattery always works its magic with TJ.

     “In a perfect world, maybe,” he says.   I see the flattery has had some effect.  He examines his single-breasted, leather buttoned Harris Tweed jacket--hand woven by crofters in the Western Isles of Scotland and trademarked with the Harris Tweed Orb label that identifies its particular weaver.  He brushes the lapel with philia.  “But we live in an imperfect one, which is perfectly fine with me.  The more bad guys there are, the easier it is to identify the good ones, no?”  TJ has taken my Louis Jordan compliment to heart, and has begun to speak in a French manner, such as ending his sentences with the inquisitive ‘no?’  “I think if she meets me, if she sees that Sinclair has continued in his ‘lifestyle’ as she puts it--that will be the final break for them.  I think she’ll make good on her threat to disinherit him.”